


Alcohol

by arenoseAnima



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, F/F, possible abuse?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 10:53:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arenoseAnima/pseuds/arenoseAnima
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roxy and Rose know the hedgehog's dilemma. Written for Round 3: Balancing Act.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alcohol

“I can’t,” you say, and you don’t look at her face. “I can’t. You know that. We’ve talked about this before, Roxy. We’re both busy, and - it isn’t an option to - “

“Save the Entertainment Tonight exposé for somebody who hasn’t heard it,” Roxy snaps at you. You wince. People are starting to stare, and you see more heads turn as Roxy shoves her chair back hard enough for the legs to scream across the floor. She snatches her pocketbook, and when you put your hand over hers, her face twists.

You search your words for a moment, but all you can come up with is “please?”

Roxy looks down at your hands. Your gaze is drawn to her face as she bites her lip. You see what you prayed you wouldn’t - hurt and loneliness filling her eyes, and the sommelier standing behind her with a fresh bottle of wine.

“Is madame excusing herself?” the sommelier asks.  He looks at you and his eyebrows go up. “Ah, I see madame is with her - “

“Sister,” you snap, before he can say anything. “No, she wasn’t going anywhere.”

Roxy sits down again, making sure to tighten her hand painfully on yours. You deserve it, and you deserve the crescent marks of blood drawn by her nails. The sommelier refills your glasses and leaves you the bottle at Roxy’s gesture.

She gets through a glass and a half before she says anything more, gulping the wine like a drowning woman sucking water into her lungs. “I was leaving, you bitch.” Her cheeks are starting to bloom.

“I hate it when we end dinner on a sour note, Roxy.”

Her fingers hook the air in vicious talons. “’Dinner.’ Are we still pretending that these aren’t dates?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you - we can’t, it’s not - it’s not right, to do this.” Your voice is high. “We’re professionals.”

Roxy grabs your wrist so hard you know it’ll be braceleted with a bruise within the hour. She leans across the table, the candle nested in the centerpiece singeing her hair, and she cups her hand around your ear in a perfectly sisterly manner as she whispers “you fucking love this.”

Now it’s your turn to shove your chair back. Her grip on your wrist almost pulls your shoulder out of its socket, but she lets go just at the point of pain, and she watches you shake in your seat as she licks drops of red wine from her lips. You’re a lump of indignant fury, heat burning white in places you don’t dare mention, and she’s offering you your fucking wineglass and you lean right back in to take a mouthful and she smirks as you swallow. Your nails gouge your stockings.

In ten minutes the rest of the bottle is gone - Roxy will do a lot of things but she won’t waste good wine - and you’re picking up the check this time, apparently. As you leave, the maitre d’ asks if you need something for your hand, but Roxy waves him off.

The first thing she does when you get to your car is lick the blood away. Her lips trail along the inside of your wrist, and when she kisses you you know she doesn’t taste enough wine for this to be acceptable, and your hands on her hips and her knee between your thighs and you’re still in the parking lot, for fuck’s sake, there are security cameras and paparazzi lurking in the shadows and Roxy moaning into your mouth.

At least she waits until you’re sprawled in the back seat to kneel between your splayed legs.

\--

You are Roxy Lalonde, and your heart can’t be broken, because you made sure to tape it together extra-tight last time. She’s such a fucking lush, a seductress, a hot fucking number in that little black dress she always wears, she’s your sister and you don’t care who knows. Every damn time you go out to dinner, it’s “oh, Roxy, my dearest and only sibling, we can’t keep doing this, oh Roxy you’re all I ever wanted, take me now,” and you fuck in her car and in her bed and on her kitchen counter and then she disowns you in the morning, except she doesn’t, because if she disowned you then you could be together.

You can’t take this anymore, but you know you’re going to anyway. Because you love her. You love the way she smiles, the way she holds your hand, every word she’s ever said even when she uses them against you. You’re not sure when this got all fucked up - maybe right before your parents split, when you saw her trying on Mom’s heels - but there’s no turning back now.

She ditched you before sunrise just like always, leaving you to sleep off the hangover and the kisses still burning on your skin. Breakfast is a little hair of the dog, and by the time one PM rolls around you’re feeling fresher than usual after a night with Rose. You’re not needed for Important Science Business this week and you’re hurting too much to go into work anyway. So you reserve today as a Roxy Day. Which means that you’re going to spend it sitting in your boxers at the computer refreshing Pilsnr.

In a couple of hours you’ve had enough hairs of the dog to make a good-sized Samoyed. Calling Rose is looking like a better idea by the minute, especially since you’ve spent the last ten minutes with your hand in your undies and everyone on your dash is reblogging Complacency smut. You pick up the phone and you give her a ring.

Uh, metaphorically.

Some squeaky-voiced hussy picks up, and you remember way too late that Rose had to hire a secretary to field all the fan mail and phone sex. “May I ask who’s speaking?” she says primly.

“You’re fucking her, aren’t you!” you bark. That’s not exactly what you meant to come out, but you can probably roll with it. While she’s silent you take another shot, your hand shaking. Isn’t this shit supposed to be liquid courage?

The secretary starts saying something, but she’s interrupted by a scuffle on the other end of the line, and then the voices of angels sing you to your cardiac arrest. “Are you assaulting my coworkers again?”

“You’re fucking her, aren’t you,” says the vodka, and your heart drops. There’s a long silence on the other end of the line.

“Is there any particular reason you called, or are you just slinging unfounded accusations over your eight-martini lunch?”

“Low fucking blow!”

“Because both of us so _often_ take the high road!” This time you’re silent, and it stretches on for minutes before she whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” you say. “I - “

“Dinner, tonight? I’ll pay.”

“...yeah.”

“I’ll be seeing you,” she says, and hangs up.

You say “I love you” to the dead line until your bottle is empty.


End file.
